


And all the people that you made in (his) image

by Sparklefingers



Series: In The Presence of Absence [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Battleworld, Choking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 12:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21391963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparklefingers/pseuds/Sparklefingers
Summary: Stephen Strange was not remade.One man in a world of multitudes.Logically, then, this man is not Stephen Strange.
Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom
Series: In The Presence of Absence [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545037
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	And all the people that you made in (his) image

**Author's Note:**

> One day I will write something long again.

Stephen Strange was not remade.

Only Stephen is Stephen. The Sheriff. No other exist across the patchwork world God created.

This is the correct order of things. If Stephen were to exist outside Doomstadt, were to live a life among the people, an ordinary life, his authority could be called into question.

The Law must be feared and respected.

Stephen Strange is one man in this world of multitudes.

So, logically, the man on his knees at the roots of Yggdrasil cannot be Stephen Strange.

The man choking himself for his god’s pleasure is not Stephen Strange.

(Even God is allowed to delude himself from time to time.)

The man who is not Stephen Strange is pulled back, his mouth open and eyes fixed upon his God’s visage, eyes full of reverence and desire. His lips are red and swollen, he has saliva dripping down his chin.

He is magnificent.

The man is pulled into God’s lap, knees either side of him on the throne.

“Prepare yourself for me,” God commands. A flicker of magic at fingertips (God could not imagine any version of this man bereft of the magic so intrinsic to his being), and he reaches behind with slick fingers to open himself up.

“You are beautiful,” he murmurs, running fingers through black hair streaked with white, soft and unstyled (Victor does not enjoy how stern Stephen looks now with his hair pulled back so severely). The man preens at the attention, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as his fingers work to prepare his body for his God. (and if said God had created him to be more sensitive to touch than the original, would anyone truly blame him? Surely not.)

“Please…” the word is gasped. “Please, God Emperor... I am ready for you, let me please you.”

(Too reverent. Too polite. Is it too late to change that? He finds himself missing the biting wit and insolence.)

He answers with a tug at Stephen’s (No, not Stephen. There is only one Stephen, Victor.) wrist. The freed hand is bound to the other with magic bindings conjured from the air. A firm grip of his hips, and the man sinks down upon his God with the contented sigh of a man absolved of all sins.

(Victor wonders if Stephen would also be so enthusiastic. Would his eyes roll back the same way? Would he keen in the same tone? Or would his pride not allow him to ride Victor’s cock as unabashedly as the man currently throwing his head back and moaning?)

God allows his hands to rest on the man’s hips loosely, freedom granted for him to move at his own pace. The cries echo around the hall, emptied at God’s command. None shall enter until he allows it. The Thors guard the entrance, but it is unnecessary. Here, God’s word is absolute.

God is free to take his pleasure at his own pace. He grips those perfect hips more forcefully, sure to leave bruises perfectly matching the ridges of his gauntlets. He thrusts up into Ste- into the man roughly, impatient with the leisurely pace now.

“Please…” the man pants out.

His voice is wrecked.

His voice is beautiful.

“Please, my God. I’m so close.” The man tightens around him, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. “Please… May I come?”

“Say my name.”

The skin beneath God’s fingers is colouring with bruises already as he manipulates the man’s body as though it weighs nothing.  
  


“Please, God Emperor Doom!”

Before another breath can be taken, the man’s neck is being crushed by God’s hand.

Grey eyes widen, fear and acceptance warring across his face.

The body’s natural state is to fight for life. But this man lives for his God. If God desires his life, he will give it willingly. His body has not received this message, and struggles against the iron grip crushing his windpipe.

“Say. My. Name.” God growls into Stephen’s (_It is not Stephen, damn it!_) face.

Confusion. Fear. Eyes closed in resignation.

Absently, God recognises that the man’s body is as willing as ever despite his imminent demise.

(This, he can believe of Stephen.)

His cock is hard and dripping, his insides clench magnificently around God’s cock even in the stillness of this tableau. 

Understanding dawns across the reddening face, perfect lips open but sound cannot escape the crushing grip. Bloodshot grey eyes pleading with his God to allow him this chance to repent, to please him.

Almost reluctantly, God relinquishes his grasp.

Stephen (oh god, _Stephen_) spasms as he desperately gasps in air. His eyes roll back to just the whites, back arched so sharply he looks as if his spine will snap. Oxygen floods his body all at once and his orgasm overcomes him in violent, reverent, spasms. White against white, God finds he cannot care that his robes are soiled.

For, in the midst of the orgasm destroying him, Stephen who is not Stephen prays with his entire being and cries out one word.

“Victor.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really want to explore this idea further, so watch this space? Might have a sequel. I really want to delve into the betrayal Stephen would feel if he found out.


End file.
